


the harder the rain / the sweeter the sun

by moonlit_monstrosity



Category: The Owl House (Cartoon)
Genre: (of natural causes), Aged-Up Amity Blight and Luz Noceda, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Beta Concept Art Amity Blight/Beta Concept Art Luz Noceda, Eventual Romance, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Lesbian Disaster Amity Blight, Mutual Pining, NO SMUT THO the only reason they're aged up is bc they need to be Old to Own Houses, amity has pet fish, but they're closer to beta in terms of appearance, house sitting au, kind of, no beta we die like men, odalia and alador are DEAD, so amity is now ceo (capitalism moment???), their personalities are a mix between canon and beta, they're in their 20s-ish??, well okay they're not technically housemates until later on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-20 06:20:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30000579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlit_monstrosity/pseuds/moonlit_monstrosity
Summary: Luz glances at the rest of the motel through the bathroom door. The only source of light is the feeble glow of the bedside lamp, since the overhead light doesn’t turn on half the time and flickers violently whenever it does. Discolored splotches of vomit or alcohol or piss or semen (Luz can’t tell which) stain the walls and floor and even the ceiling (Lord knows how that got up there). The room is comfortless and destitute—she’s relieved, at least, that there are no bed bugs.She’ll be out of here soon enough, thank the heavens.
Relationships: Amity Blight/Luz Noceda
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	1. like the breaking of glass

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from _no plan_ by hozier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title is a lyric from _wasteland, baby!_ by hozier

Amity paces around her kitchen island as she waits for her sister to pick up the phone, repeatedly cuffing and uncuffing her blazer sleeves. Her coffee machine whirs gently in the background, and the sky outside her window is still draped in dark. The sun has yet to rise, but Amity has a flight to catch.

The phone goes to voicemail at the same time that the coffee machine beeps. Amity groans and redials before pouring herself a cup of coffee from the carafe, warming her hands around the mug. She takes her first sip slowly, holds the bitterness between her teeth. As she swallows, she catches a glimpse of her warped reflection in the refrigerator door, and frowns at the blur of brown peeking up from her roots. If her mother were here, she’d surely throw a fit—it’s all too easy to picture her mother’s pursed lips and steely gaze, and the sudden memory of Odalia Blight’s cold fingers in Amity’s hair feels almost real, a little too tangible for comfort. Disconcerted, she touches the back of her head and swipes at the air behind her, as though to ensure that the imaginary hands groping at her scalp are just that: imaginary.

When the call goes to voicemail again, Amity clenches her jaw and resists the urge to kick a hole through one of her cabinets. Instead, she pours herself another cup of coffee and hunches over the phone, waiting for the voice message to start recording.

“Emira,” she says, teeth gritted. “I don’t know where the fuck you are, and I don’t particularly care. But what I _do_ know is that the house sitter will be here soon, and if that poor thing has to wait in the elevator all day because you’re late to letting her into the penthouse and getting her settled, I won’t hesitate to—”

“Press one to replay your message,” interrupts the phone, and Amity slams the red _END CALL_ button before the robotic voice can continue. She chokes down the rest of her coffee and fumes, dragging a hand through her hair. The loose strands she tugs from her scalp are white blonde and dry as hell; she contemplates getting a dye job after she lands. She’ll be in New York, after all. Surely there’ll be an abundance of salons to pick from.

Amity rinses her mug and hooks its handle onto the dish drying rack. Her flight is in a few hours and she really ought to get going, but at this point, she can’t trust Emira to show the house sitter around. The older girl probably wouldn’t even explain the difference between the two bathrooms or how to take care of the outdoor jacuzzi if it rained or the names of each of Amity’s pet fish, and Amity considered all of these to be crucial knowledge.

She hunts down a pack of sticky notes and starts off by labelling her instruction booklet drawer, which is chock full of informational packets and warning messages, the kind that most people throw away without a second thought. Next up is the cutlery drawer, and then the wine rack. Though Amity isn’t fond of drinking, she knows that a good hostess always keeps a Pinot Gris or a full-bodied Zinfandel on hand, and she needs to ensure that the house sitter won’t mess up the order of the bottles on the rack.

When the entire kitchen is covered in Post-Its, Amity moves on to the three bedrooms. She leaves a note on each door with the pros and cons of each room—the one at the end of the hall doesn’t get as much sunlight, for example—and hesitates briefly before writing _PICK WHICHEVER YOU WANT_ , on the last note, _EVEN THE MASTER BEDROOM_. The idea of someone else sleeping in Amity’s bed while she’s away is unnerving, but it’s the best of the three and she wants the house sitter to be comfortable. At least she knows the sitter is a girl around her age, vouched for by Emira’s girlfriend, and not some forty-year-old neckbeard with ringworm.

Amity tacks the final note right beside the elevator door. Ideally, it’ll let the house sitter know about all the other notes—though most of them are hard to miss—and serve as a welcome, since Amity can’t be there herself to pass along the keys. Pleased, she shoulders her tote bag and presses the elevator button, tapping her fingers along the handle of her stout suitcase as she waits.

Soon, the doors open with a ding! and Amity steps inside. The nice thing about having a private elevator is that she never has to worry about stilted small talk or lewd strangers eyeing her up, and she can check her phone in peace. Emira still hasn’t responded, unsurprisingly. Amity can’t help but think that none of this would be an issue if she hadn’t sold the Blight family jet: she’d be able to schedule flights of her own accord without needing to get up at ungodly hours to drive down to the airport and go through TSA, and she’d be able to show the house sitter around without needing to rely on her sister, and she’d be able to breathe a little easier.

It’s too late to regret the sale, though. The private jet was an unnecessary expense, and its flashy opulence reflected her mother’s tastes more closely than it reflected Amity’s (she still likes to fly first or business class, but even that is a far cry from the grandeur of the jet).

With a sigh, Amity scours her list of contacts for the house sitter’s information, and begins drafting a message.

_Dear Miss Noceda…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i made amity a blonde since. human au and natural green hair is not a thing in the human world so odalia would not have natural green hair to make amity replicate. :-)


	2. sorry about the blood in your mouth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from _little beast_ by richard siken

Luz squints at her phone, lying halfway across the motel bathroom, when it dings. She hurries through brushing her teeth and picks up the phone, blinking a few times at the startlingly bright screen. The message is from an unknown number, and Luz momentarily considers ignoring the text altogether and moving on with her day—it’s still early in the morning, and she’s too tired to deal with anything outside of her usual routine. Still, she figures it’s better to be safe than sorry. For all she knows, it might be a message from King Felipe VI letting her know that all of the Spanish monarchy’s generational wealth is being passed down to her as reparations for colonizing the Caribbean.

As it turns out, the message is not, in fact, from King Felipe VI.

_Dear Miss Noceda,_

_My name is Amity Blight. If you recall, we have made arrangements for you to watch over my penthouse whilst I am away, and take care of my fish and plants. While we previously arranged for my sister, Emira, to let you into the apartment and show you around, there’s a chance that Emira will be unavailable. I’ve left a series of notes and instructions around my apartment to replace Emira’s tour, just in case._

_If Emira isn’t there to let you in, please call me at this phone number; I’ll be able to remotely add your fingerprint to the private elevator. Again, I’m so sorry I can’t be there to greet you myself._

_Thank you for your services, and please don’t hesitate to reach out with any questions or concerns!_

_Best,_

_Amity Blight_

Luz snorts. The entire text is written like a business email, and the formality of it is almost suffocating. She supposes she has to cut the other girl some slack, though—writing business emails must be the specialty of a business woman like Amity Blight. The text is also as close as Luz will probably ever get to a message from King Felipe VI, so she figures her guess was more or less accurate; the Blights may not be royalty, but their wealth is staggering and undeniable. When Viney first started seeing Emira Blight, Luz had teased her about being a gold digger— _trying to marry into old money, huh?_ —and congratulated her on getting one step closer to becoming a trophy wife. The other girl had rolled her eyes and chucked a pillow at Luz’s head in response; the memory makes Luz snicker.

She’s glad that the two met, even if she isn’t sure how. Viney’s been practically glowing ever since, for one thing, and for another, Luz’s new house sitting job is all thanks to Viney and Emira. Without it, she’d probably be stuck in another dingy motel, wincing at the smell of nicotine and praying the ceiling wouldn’t cave in on her in the middle of the night.

Like she is now.

Luz glances at the rest of the motel through the bathroom door. The only source of light is the feeble glow of the bedside lamp, since the overhead light doesn’t turn on half the time and flickers violently whenever it does. Discolored splotches of vomit or alcohol or piss or semen (Luz can’t tell which) stain the walls and floor and even the ceiling (Lord knows how that got up there). The room is comfortless and destitute—she’s relieved, at least, that there are no bed bugs.

She’ll be out of here soon enough, thank the heavens.

As she organizes her toiletries and the few belongings that she unpacked, Luz brainstorms possible responses to Amity’s text. The last thing she wants to do is respond with the same kind of stiffness and decorum; on the other hand, she doesn’t think that Amity would be a fan of her usual texting style.

She’ll strike a compromise, she decides. The perfect balance between authentic and aloof. Proper nouns will be capitalized but nothing else, and she won’t use half as many exclamation marks or emoticons as usual—it’s a foolproof strategy.

_hi Amity!! Luz here—thanks for letting me know :-)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chap 3 coming soon :-)


End file.
